Just a Corpse at Twilight

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  "And put me up?"

  "Yes," de Gier said. "Alcohol made me do this to you. I am sorry."

  Grijpstra had found his thermos. There was only one mug. Aki drank coffee first, then Lorraine, then de Gier. They cleaned up the beach together.

  Aki and Lorraine, taking the garbage, paddled their kayaks to the Point, where Aki had left her car. Grijpstra took de Gier for a walk along Jeremy Island's shore. They sat down on a fallen trunk. De Gier patted his shirt pocket.

  "You don't smoke anymore," Grijpstra said.

  They watched the sea, rippled by the morning's breeze.

  "So?"

  "So," Grijpstra said, "we should get out of here."

  "So who is the corpse?" de Gier asked.

  Lorraine and her kayak were still in view. Sunlight reflected on Lorraine's short blond hair.

  "Obviously, not Lorraine," Grijpstra said. "And if she wasn't Lorraine, then who cares?" He gestured. "An anonymous dead woman we have no knowledge of."

  "How come the anonymous dead woman had Lorraine's hair?"

  "Braided into her own hair," Grijpstra said. "By Bad George after he used a pair of rusty shears on Lorraine."

  "El Al should have a flight out of Boston tonight," de Gier said. "We could be having dinner at Nellie's."

  Grijpstra patted the side pocket of his jacket.

  "You don't smoke anymore either," de Gier said.

  "Are you happy now?" Grijpstra asked as he and de Gier moved across Jeremy Island. De Gier stopped dancing when Grijpstra said he wanted him to check out the remains of the anonymous woman's corpse in Mr. Bear's tunnel again.

  "You recognize her?"

  De Gier thought he did but it was hard to recognize a body that has been ravished by a bear.

  "The Macho Bandido lady?" Grijpstra asked.

  De Gier thought so, maybe.

  "Had you met the Macho Bandido lady?"

  De Gier had not but thought that the corpse matched the body Aki had described as belonging to the Macho Bandido lady.

  "She who accompanied the three Latino sailors or alleged drug dealers who then disappeared in a rented limousine?"

  De Gier thought so, maybe.

  "Take a closer look."

  De Gier tried to leave the tunnel. Grijpstra dragged him back and pushed him down.

  De Gier was sure now.

  "So you think it is likely that this corpse belonged to the beautiful lady who accompanied the three Latinos on the Macho Bandido?

  "Yes." De Gier staggered out of the tunnel and ran toward the beach again.

  "I think there is something here that might be figured out," Grijpstra said, squatting next to de Gier while de Gier washed his face with water scooped up from a puddle.

  "I think you should phone Nellie," de Gier said, in between retching.

  "Phone the commissaris?"

  "We call that 'phoning Nellie' now," de Gier said, peering at Grijpstra with bloodshot eyes, "or connecting with Higher Judgment."

  Chapter 18

  "But of course," the commissaris said. "A party. That's what we need. Musical rallying of the troops. Good luck, Henk." He switched off his cordless telephone, gave it to his wife, and carefully maneuvered himself down the slippery garden steps.

  She took the phone back into the house and returned to the garden. By then he was out of his chair and leaning on his stick, talking to the turtle, who, half-in, half-out of tall weeds, watched him attentively.

  "I wish you'd lie down," Katrien said.

  "Amazing, don't you think?" the commissaris asked Turtle. "All this rationalizing. You know what rationalizing means?"

  Turtle, extending a scaly neck, didn't seem sure.

  "Rationalizing means devising reasonable but untrue excuses to perform meaningful acts," the commissaris said.

  "Turtle wants lettuce," Katrien said.

  The commissaris had a few leaves in the pocket of his silk robe. He pulled one out. Turtle ate.

  The commissaris turned to Katrien. "Grijpstra and de Gier pretend that they're these cool cucumbers, out there for kicks, but they're essentially do-gooders."

  "Good for them," Katrien said.

  "I've always been a do-gooder too." The commissaris prodded his own chest accusingly. "I find that amazing."

  Katrien steered her husband back to bis chair, gently pushed, made him sit down. "What's bad in doing good?"

  "It's silly," the commissaris said. "So some unpleasant stuffis going on there involving third parties only. So what? My fine boys are guests in that great and beautiful country and de Gier inadvertently got himself into a little trouble and Grijpstra was good enough to get him out of it and that's it, Katrien." The commissaris nodded briefly. "Home, sweet home." He nicked his hand. "Home sweet home, Katrien. Our boy is off the hook. We all relax."

  "But things aren't right there, Jan."

  "Well," the commissaris said, "there may be mutual benefit in doing the good work, of course. If the investigation works out all parties involved might learn something." He held out more lettuce for Turtle. "Or feel better. This Aki maybe. And Beth."

  "You don't care about Beth," Katrien said. "She isn't pretty. Remember that dinner party she threw for Grijpstra? Grijpstra described Beth as a homely woman. You never care much for homely women."

  The commissaris looked at Katrien. "I love homely women."

  Katrien brought up another garden chair. "Its different with me. I'm old. You remember the way I looked before. There are photographs to remind you. And you need me more now." She frowned. "But maybe you are right. What has it got to do with us, what happened there? Grijpstra accomplished his mission and de Gier is probably still crazed. They'll be better off here."

  "Tell them to try not to be heroes?"

  "It's America," Katrien said. "Americans are so quick on the draw. That poor woman may have gotten herself cowboyed."

  "Or Indianed," the commissaris agreed.

  "An unnatural death brought about by that hairless sheriff just because he wanted the Macho Bandido?" Katrien asked.

  The commissaris fed his last leaf oflettuce to Turtle. He softly scratched the reptile's head with the tip of his cane. He looked up. "Situations just happen along but when a good one runs into us"—he grinned—"why not try and use our good fortune?"

  "This is a good situation?" Katrien asked. "With the bones of that poor woman being gnawed by Mr. Bear?"

  The commissaris was staring at tall weeds growing around his feet. "That kindly sheriff and Billy Boy, the frustrated model-boat builder—they are using the situation too. You know"—he patted her hand—"what else are bad guys doing but taking care of business. . . doing the best they can under the circumstances? Just the same as good guys. Imagine the situation out there, everybody growing pot on islands, a locally born and elected sheriff, what's he going to do? Arrest the town? Of course he joins his good old buddies, and being smarter he does better, and then greed takes over. Greed is a fat demon with a small mouth and whatever you feed it is never enough. I always have to laugh when I hear vindictive prosecutors sum up cases, pretending we have conscious criminals who willingly, by choice, create evil to hinder society. Bah. . . never happens that way. Never."

  Katrien frowned. "Really, Jan. You call what the sheriff keeps doing unavoidable choice? How about clever self-serving manipulation of random circumstances?"

  "Clever?" The commissaris reflected. "No. Unaware. Dragged down by circumstances. Poor Hairy Harry didn't pay attention. Started off okay, pleasing his mother in his new uniform, and then we see him slowly sliding down the chute of power, becoming a freak. Now what are we the well-intentioned to do? Given the world we live in, a power freak has to be done away with somehow." The commissaris patted Katrien's arm. "But let's do our moralizing later. For now we can theorize, fit our facts into some structure. Reconstruct reality." He smiled.

  Katrien looked businesslike. "Reconstruct away."

  "The sheriff," the commissaris said briskly, "boarded a mnlion-dollar yacht
, Macho Bandido, that was abandoned in Jameson Harbor." The commissaris held up a finger. "Situation one. You go from there, you're a lawyer too, Katrien."

  Katrien touched Turtle's shield with her foot, rubbing it, making the animal stand firmly on its sturdy legs and close its eyes in pure enjoyment. "Situation two: We surmise that Hairy Harry found a woman aboard, the subject described by Aki as 'a model.' Subject was dead. There had been three men with her, South American types, with big drooping mustaches, golden bangles and chains, and tailormade sailor clothes. They were seen with the woman, partying on the yacht. This went on for some days. Then activity stopped, after Aki had seen a car, early one morning, probably a rented limo, pick up our yachtsmen at the dock. We assume the woman was left behind. Our witness, Aki, said it was still too dark to see who got into the limo. The luxurious vehicle arrived, people got in, the limo drove off. Hairy Harry knew that too. He or his deputy . . ."

  "Billy Boy," the commissaris said. "The sheriff's office must keep an eye on the dock."

  "Yes, Billy Boy saw it all." Katrien narrowed her eyes. "We keep presuming. The men leave, the woman doesn't, the yacht appears abandoned, he takes a peek aboard, finds the woman's dead body."

  "Fits in, doesn't it?" The commissaris asked.

  "The woman got overdosed?"

  "Cocaine," the commissaris said. "We had a similar case right here in Amsterdam on the Emperor's Canal. Remember? Attractive young lady in a splendid gabled house in the best part of town gets herself coked up. She visits a few pubs and picks up three university students. She takes them home, parties, dies. We have an anonymous call, which de Gier, by following the victim's movements that evening, traced to one of the students who was with her when she died. Through him we located two more murder suspects. But, once again, we ran into a web of mishaps. Suspects stated that their hostess seemed insatiable, kept sniffing and handing out more cocaine, broke out the liquor, insisted on more sex. And she was enticing her partners—the cocaine kept exciting them too, of course, it does that in the early stages of the addiction . . .

  "... I thought it made the user paranoid?"

  "Later, Katrien. Much later in the process. The user can't bear being touched then but first there's the sexy stage. As I said, subject kept inciting her guests and the students kept complying. She finally went into a dead faint that changed into a coma. One of the boys placed an anonymous call to a doctor, we verified that from the doctor's answering machine, and eventually called us."

  "You believe the students were just trying to please?"

  "Where does mutual pleasure become abuse?" the commissaris asked. "This model versus the Latinos could be a similar situation. Remember the boat show we visited during that holiday in Naples? Expensive yachts, beautiful saleswomen, champagne, smoked salmon on toast? You kept saying you thought some of the buyers had to be big-time dope dealers. Same here. South American types pick up a brand new beautifully equipped yacht, the saleswoman, 'the model,' goes along on the maiden voyage." He stared at Katrien. "Can you see it? The cocktail party on board? The clients joking that they'll buy the boat for cash if the seller throws in the girl too? Everybody hopped up on something or other. Everything seems just beautiful and easy. The seller takes the model aside and offers her a commission in cash if she goes along with the joke. The buyers are happy with their new boat, the model is happy with the prospect of profit-sharing, a week of partying and beautiful island hopping—quite risky, of course, as in our present case where the joy ride becomes a hair-raising trip up the dangerous Maine coast. The Latinos do manage to make it to Jameson, the effort warrants a party, pot plus whiskey and a wild wild woman, things get out of hand—we have a dead woman. . . ."

  "But the South American types didn't call a doctor and the police anonymously," Katrien said, "like our nice university student on the Emperor's canal."

  "All situations differ because happenstance cannot repeat itself exactly," the commissaris said. "We may safely assume that foreign suspects will not want a tough American sheriff to check out their boat. As soon as their beautiful lady becomes seriously unwell, suspects decide to run for freedom. Abandoning a million dollars' worth of yacht means nothing to them and it might stall the sheriff, like throwing a bone to the wolf that pursues you."

  "Why didn't suspects attempt to hide the body? Throw her overboard themselves? Bury her on an island somewhere?" Katrien shook her head. "But they didn't. The yacht was left in Jameson Harbor, anchored with a short line that made her dip her nose at low tide."

  "Too hung over from that final party?" the commissaris asked. "It would mean taking the boat out of Jameson Harbor, feeing shoals and tides and currents and winds once more. I bet you they swore they'd never handle that boat again."

  "So now the sherifFarranges for Macho Bandido to break her anchor rope so that she may float into the ocean where he can claim it privately. But the dead woman is in his way so he gets rid of the corpse?"

  "Chucks it overboard," the commissaris said.

  "Or buries it on Jeremy Island," Katrien said. "Either possibility works. Flash and Bad George either saw Hairy Harry carry something ashore at the island or they found the body floating in the bay, maybe as they were taking Lorraine home. But in that case Lorraine would know about there being a dead body." Katrien shook her head. "Too gory, she wouldn't have cooperated. So, Flash and Bad George picked up the corpse before they met with Lorraine, and buried it in the tunnel. Noticing a similarity between the 'model's and Lorraine's bodies, they later dug it up to frighten de Gier and thought ofa ruse to get Lorraine to cut off her hair. They then braided that into the corpse's . . ."

  "What about the sheriff and Billy Boy knowing about the tunnel onJeremy Island?" the commissaris asked. "They were kids once, grew up around Jameson. Kids love tunnels, so do hibernating bears. Having something to hide, they thought of their tunnel. Flash and Bad George also knew about the tunnel. So did Mr. Bear. The two skippers watched the sheriff doing something sneaky on Jeremy Island, traced him, Mr. Bear traced them. They were all in there, burying the poor woman, digging her up again."

  Katrien looked sad. "Kids. And now our kids are out there. Playing. Without you to protect them. They aren't even armed."

  "I think de Gier would like to show us that he can lace his own boots now," the commissaris said. "And Grijpstra was getting stuck here, all on his own. I'm sure he enjoys working with his old pal again."

  While Katrien went shopping, the commissaris explained to Turtle that Grijpstra and de Gier, realizing their weak position, were applying for help from available sources. Who were? Beautiful Aki, powerful Beth, Mother Farnsworth in her doggie shape, handyman/collector Ishmael, disciple of Hermit Jeremy, the two skippers. The commissaris was swishing his cane through the quiet garden air, cutting down Hairy Harry. "My two lean warriors, Turtle, temporarily slowed down by bags of money; a mere detail we'll fix later." Being at it anyway, the commissaris also swished Billy Boy.

  Dinnertime came along. "The way I see it," the commissaris said brightly, "there's been some regrouping, some crossing over lines. Our boys have made friends there."

  "Two retards in a sinking boat?" Katrien asked. "A dog with braids? A madman flying a motorized kite with a fuel-pump problem? An obese short-order cook and her disoriented recovering lady love? The past-her-prime biologist?"

  "Others who can be helpful habitually come the way they are," the commissaris said, "not the way you may want them to present themselves." The commissaris shook his fist. "To the barricades, comrades!"

  "We're opposed by bizarre evil, Jan."

  The commissaris said, "I believe the United States to be basically sound, and moreover the best possible country ever. In spite of what goes on. Americans do keep trying. And all my heroes come from there, Katrien. Were there ever finer idealists than Washington, Jefferson, and Franklin? If you think of a superior man, doesn't Abraham Lincoln come to mind? Could anyone be more sensitive and creative than Clifford Brown and Miles Davis? The subtle jugg
ling of W. C. Fields, Katrien, the ultimate in managing telephone books and words. Even the American shadowside is brilliant. Dennis Hopper, for instance, and Harry . . ."

  "Dirty Harry?" Katrien asked.

  The commissaris frowned. "No, no. Harry . . . ," he smiled. "Harry Dean Stanton, my dear. A most wonderful actor."

  Katrien felt guided by Eleanor Roosevelt, Aretha Franklin, and Flannery O'Connor.

  Later, in bed, Katrien said maybe it had to happen— silly de Gier, with his going-nowhere affairs, ultimately humiliated by Nature Woman.

  "I think you should call the boys back now, Jan."

  The commissaris, about to fall asleep, reopened an eye. "What?"

  "They'll lose out," Katrien said. "Call them back. You aren't there and Hairy Harry and Billy Boy have that awful little man guiding them, that Bildah . . ." She turned her head toward him. "I think he looks like you."

  "If so he can't be all bad," the commissaris said.

  They lay quietly, feet touching, until the commissaris's leg jerked and he was mumbling in his sleep.

  "Jan! I can't sleep when you mumble."

  His foot nudged hers. "We could do it ourselves."

  Chapter 19

  The party came about naturally, after the sinking ofKathy Three, a few days later. Flash Farnsworth claimed Hairy Harry had used a bazooka borrowed from friends in the National Guard. Bad George thought the sheriff might just as easily have tapped the boat with a hammer.

  The company was eating lobsters at Beth's Diner— Grijpstra's treat—properly, in the Maine tourist manner, with plastic bibs tied around their necks by Aki. Each bib showed ajolly lobster, waving happily, elated by the prospect of being boiled alive.

  "Lobbah Lobstah, by Walt Disnah," Bad George said, drinking beer. He wanted Grijpstra and de Gier to drink too, for this was a farewell party ofdespair, as he didn't know what he and Flash would do without their vessel. He himself had not tasted alcohol since his car was hit by a drunk and his wife had died and he himselfgot this face that would look the same forever "aftah."

  "Why bothah?" Bad George asked.